Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

He stood, stretched, sat back down. “Whatever the case, there’s still the big question: Why wait so long to get even? Unless the D-clan learned something new.”

“Confirmation of Thalia’s involvement in the hit.”

“Or a heavily sweetened pot, Alex. I can’t let go of the profit motive, nine times out of ten a case like this revolves around money. What if Cutie showed up at Thalia’s bungalow after learning about — or just suspecting — a serious cash stash?”

He re-read Demarest’s report, placed the two sheets back in the blue folder, looked up the archive online application form, and printed it.

Muttering, “Waste of time but dot the t’s. Let’s get some coffee.”

We were ten steps closer to the stairs when his phone rang. Still on speaker.

“Milo? Len Gottlieb.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Something actually,” said Gottlieb. “Sometimes a guy gets lucky. And I’m such a saint, I’m gonna share.”

We retrieved the unmarked from the lot, drove west to Centinela, then south, just past Jefferson, to a block of tired-looking small businesses, restaurants, and bars.

Len Gottlieb was waiting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and bouncing on his heels in front of a block-faced tavern called the Windjam.

Milo said, “What, they ran out of letters?”

I said, “Maybe they’re into music. Heavy-metal oboes.”

We got out, were greeted by Gottlieb’s fist-bumps. “Guess how many places I tried before I found this dive?”

“Five.”

“One. This was number two.”

“Unbelievable, Len.”

“Maybe God really does love me. That’s what my name means, God-love.” He inhaled smoke. “Maybe He’ll even protect me from the results of this filthy habit. Anyway, this is where DeGraw watered himself after work. Regularly and pretty heavily, bartender says they had to cut him off several times, the fact that he was driving made them nervous.”

“All that spit and polish,” said Milo, “and turns out he was a sloppy drunk.”

“Not sloppy-aggressive,” said Gottlieb. “He never caused problems, would just fall asleep and they’d have trouble waking him up.”

I said, “What did it take to get him to that point?”

“Meaning?”

“Did he need to be stressed to drown his sorrows? Did he ever express himself?”

“Hmm,” said Gottlieb. “Let’s find out.”

No sailing motif inside Windjam. Nothing musical, either. The starkest drinking-dive I’d ever seen north of downtown: a single anorexic room that was mostly lacquer-top bar, the sides diamond-stitched black leatherette glued unevenly.

Bolted-in stools were wood-grain and blue vinyl. Vats for well-booze took up more space than bulk bottles of low-priced spirits. On the opposite side, a couple of tables, unoccupied.

No pool table, no jukebox, no stage, nothing on pine walls aged a better bourbon color than the bottles. Vintage Beach Boys sputtered through tinny speakers perched in two corners. “Don’t Worry Baby” deserving better fidelity.

The two beer-hounds at the far end of the bar didn’t seem to mind the ambience. A slew of empty bottles and foamy splotches said the corpulent barkeep’s work ethic had flagged.

As we approached him, he saluted and motioned us away from the drinkers. Sparse hair, small Buffalo Bill beard under which two supplementary chins flourished. He wore a tan work shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

One of those hard-fat guys, tightly packed, with powerful shoulders and ham-hock forearms. Tattoos on both arms: Semper Fi, a bald eagle, Uncle Sam wanting someone, Mom in a winged heart. Tradition flourished.

Len Gottlieb said, “This is Stan, he’s been real helpful.”

Milo said, “Appreciate it, Stan.”

Stan said, “Swissair gets himself killed? Only thing to do is help you guys.”

“Swissair.”

“Never knew his name, sir, but when I asked him where he was from he said Bern. I thought he was being an asshole, telling me to put lighter fluid on myself or something. I almost kicked his ass out. I guess he didn’t like the look on my face so he told me it’s a city in Switzerland, that’s where he’s from. So I started calling him Swissair, that’s their airline.”

Not for a decade. No sense getting picky.

Gottlieb tapped the bar. “Stan says DeGraw’s been coming in for around two years. Off and on but when it’s on, it’s like three, four times a week, always evenings.”

“Looked to me like an after-work deal, we get a lot of those,” said Stan. “He’d be wearing this maroon jacket and a tie. Couple of shots, the tie would come off. Bunch more, his head would go this way.”

One hand mimed a slow descent. “I didn’t want one of those lawsuits so I kept an eye on him, told my wife to do the same when she was tending. We worked out a system. The tie comes off, he gets three more, tops. He never argued. Never said much of anything, just sat by himself and put it away.”

“What was his pleasure?” said Milo.

Stan said, “Scotch.”

Gottlieb said, “Here’s the main thing: DeGraw always came in alone until three weeks ago when he had a companion.”

“Really,” said Milo.

Stan said, “Oh, man.” Thick arms shaped an hourglass figure.

Milo said, “Cute, huh?”

“More than cute, juicy. I’m thinking, what’s he doing with something like that?”

“They get all lovey-dovey?”

“Nah,” said Stan. “But he tried to impress her. Before, he never ordered a brand, this time he wanted Crown Royal. Waste of time, she wasn’t into brown, ordered Stoli.”

Gap-toothed smile. “What they got was Canadian Mist and Smirnoff. And no hoochie-coo, all they did was drink and talk.”

“About what?”

“How should I know? I’m here, they’re there.”

Gottlieb said, “Stan says she wore a blond wig.”

“I could tell it was a wig ’cause it was too perfect. Like back-in-the-day-Farrah, those wings and things?” He exhaled, wiped his hands on his shirt. “Some body on her, what’s Swissair doing with that? But then I could see they weren’t like that.”

I said, “Nothing physical going on.”

“Nah, they just talked and he waved his little book around, then she left and he did his usual slop till you drop.”

Gottlieb said, “What book?”

“This little book,” said Stan. “Red. He’s showing it to her, she looks at it once, then she leaves.”

Milo said, “Maybe a passport?”

Stan shrugged. “Beats me, I never had one. They’re red? That’s kind of communist.”

Gottlieb said, “Ours are blue.” He looked at Milo.

Stan’s attention had wandered to the men at the bar. “Something?” he called over.

Head shakes.

Gottlieb said, “Anything else you can say about this hot thing, Stan?”

The barman outlined another hourglass. “What looked like real tits, nice and high. Confident tits, ya know?”

Milo said, “How about if we bring a sketch artist over.”

Stan picked at his chin. “Never done that before.”

“Maybe it’s time for an adventure, my friend.”

“Hmm. Sure, why not, live dangerously. But I’m not swearing to nothing. I coulda seen her topless, I’d remember a whole lot better.”

“No need to swear, Stan. Just do your best.” To Gottlieb: “Okay if I use one of my Rembrandts?”

“Better than okay.”

“I’ll give him this.” He fished out a business card, showed it to Gottlieb.

Gottlieb said, “Be my guest, he’s already got mine.”

Stan pocketed the card without reading it.

Milo said, “Hot Stuff shows up again, please call Detective Gottlieb or me. And if you can catch a license plate, you’ll be a hero.”